The Friendship of Criminals

by Robert Glinski

  Prong two involved extending his watchful eye to Kensington, Port Richmond’s closest neighbor to the south and west. The move had no financial bearing; Bielakowski historically dismissed the neighborhood as a collection of hack pipefitters, burned-out storefronts, and roaming bands of street punks. But Kensington was also the ideal location for snatching an Italian. Grabbing one close to Port Richmond’s perimeter allowed Bielakowski to send a message without painting his own doorstep red. When confronted, he could shrug his shoulders and say street taxes were a dangerous business, particularly in a barbaric land populated by savages living off the government tit.

  And prong three was another call to Big Bern Jaracz. Twenty-five shotguns were not enough.

  4.

  ANGIE SPINA WAS THE PITCH-PERFECT party girl. She sipped champagne with a giggle, swapped words with ooh’s and ahh’s, and flipped her hair as if she had dance club Tourette’s.

  So convincing was the performance that Marcek Bielakowski never considered the possibility she was hustling him. Granted, Angie was camouflaged in cleavage bait and a ruler-length skirt, but her riff on the nuns at St. Maria Goretti High School was too good for the rest of her cut-and-pasted dialogue. And when a drunk bumped the champagne from her hand, she stayed steady-eddy, not even a Watch it, bitch or middle finger.

  Yeah, there was enough. He should’ve known.

  Marcek had first spotted Angie a month earlier at Roth’s Fine Diamonds. Her olive skin and dark features caught his attention; her contempt for the sales job kept him from looking away. While he had plenty of gigs, he filed her face in case they ever crossed paths. And here they were at a Delaware Avenue dance club—Marcek doing the courtship-across-the-bar routine, Angie making it easy, waving him over and asking why he waited so long.

  For the rest of the night, the two drank champagne, smoked Marlboros, and danced until they were soaked in sweat and pheromones. Last call moved them outside, where Marcek suggested Geno’s for cheese steaks. Angie waved him off, telling him about a late-night diner on Fairmount Avenue. “I’m feeling like pancakes,” she said. “And I don’t want to be seen in my neighborhood with a medigan.”

  They parked a block away and stepped slow because her feet hurt. The diner’s windows were steamed by a mash-up of Dylan bohemians, club kids, Seattle grunge, and shift workers starting or ending their workday. The owner—an Einstein-looking caricature with teased hair and overgrown mustache—hustled between the register and the kitchen. His emotions cycled so fast that he barked and smiled in the same sentence, encouraging some customers’ shticks, dismissing others as forced or foolish.

  Seated at the counter, Marcek ordered his cheese steak with onions and Cheez Whiz. Angie went with chocolate chip pancakes and a Diet Coke in a to-go cup. Waiting for their food, they thought of nicknames for the owner and imagined his life as a teenager. When conversation slowed, Marcek pointed at a T-shirt mounted above the cash register. Heaven is where the police are British, the chefs are Italian, the mechanics are German, the lovers are Greek, and it’s all organized by the Swiss. Hell is where the police are German, the chefs are British, the mechanics are Greek, the lovers are Swiss, and it’s all organized by the Italians.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “What, as poetry?”

  “As, I don’t know, advice.”

  “Life would be easier if knowing people were that simple.”

  “There’s truth in those descriptions.” Marcek tossed his chin toward the owner. “You want him tuning your engine or running a bank?”

  Angie surveyed the room. Two college students in hooded sweatshirts read from the same Vonnegut book. A man dropped ice cubes from a water glass into his cereal flakes. Half a dozen skateboarders counted money on a tabletop before ordering. “There’s truth in everything. That’s why people like conspiracies—only they are smart enough to make the connections. But I guess that’s the difference between cash and credit. Careful making more of it than it is.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? Two hours ago, you had me figured for champagne drunk, short skirt, heels, and sex in the parking lot.”

  Marcek exhaled half a laugh.

  “Now I’m eating pancakes in a diner. Shoes are off and my makeup is a mess. Things change.”

  Missing her hint of transition, he said she still looked great.

  “Okay, let’s personalize it,” she said, eyebrows up. “Tonight you hit the town thinking you never looked better. All slick and clean, face shaved and hair trimmed. Fast-forward and you have a cheese-stained shirt, onion mouth, and your deodorant is breaking down. Life gets weird enough on its own. Don’t help it by making a bunch of predictions.”

  They followed the tangent another thirty minutes before walking back to his car and driving to Angie’s South Philly row home. Conversation was an easy give-and-take, neither one blocking the other from making a meaningful contribution. As Marcek double-parked, she worked her drink straw instead of reaching for the door handle.

  Checking his rearview mirror, Marcek turned off the engine. “Where’d you say you work?”

  “Told you at the club.” She sipped her soda, catching more air than liquid.

  “Jewelry Row, right? Roth’s on Walnut Street.”

  “Yeah, for the moment. My boss is an asshole. Don’t laugh, but I’m thinking about becoming a legal secretary. Maybe even a paralegal.”

  Marcek asked why she thought he’d pan the dream.

  She scratched a freckle on her thigh. “I don’t know. That’s just what most guys do, like it’s a joke.”

  He wondered if she was being real or manipulating the moment. His take was a little of both and it didn’t matter. “I don’t think going for what you want is a joke. Everybody deserves that.”

  With the corner of her mouth curled in, Angie gave him a soft smile.

  “So, you’re quitting the jewelry store?”

  “Can’t do school and work at the same time. My cousin is at a big law firm and swears she can get me hired when I graduate.”

  Marcek leaned close, looking through the passenger window to scan her home. “Any chance your dad’s going to have a problem with me parked here?”

  “He can’t see us from Curran-Fromhold.” Inches away, she liked his smell, even after the dancing and smoking.

  “All that can’t be cheap.”

  “It’s jail,” she said, swiping his arm like they were playing on a fourth date. “Don’t you know Curran-Fromhold?”

  He dug her giggle, thought it was cute as hell. When her face was closed, like on the drive to the diner, she wore weariness beyond her years. All that disappeared as she let the light through. “I know CFCF—I’m talking about school. You said you’re thinking about going back, and I said a school like that must cost good money.”

  She took a quick look at her home, not speaking until she resumed eye contact. “Why don’t you ask me?”

  He didn’t know what she meant and said so.

  She placed a hand on his forearm. “We’ve seen each other before tonight.” When he didn’t squint or flinch, Angie knew she had him cold. Silly boys always thought they were running the game. They only got what she was willing to give, never more. “My Dad’s at CFCF because he likes to steal. Ask him what he does for a living and he says I steal shit. When I started at the jewelry store, he got that look in his eyes. You know the one, right? Yeah, you do.”

  The jig was up. Marcek had tripped hard coming at her with misplaced assumptions and blind bravado. Under different circumstances, either one was enough to get himself killed. “All night you’ve been dealing from the bottom of the deck.”

  “Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. If I wasn’t interested, we wouldn’t be here.”

  Marcek asked what gave him away.

  Before answering, Angie motioned for a smoke. He pulled a pack of Marlboros from the glove box, lit two, and handed one over. Knowing how men responded to getting turned around, she was surprised he didn�
�t toss the burning stick into her lap.

  “I see things pretty clear,” she said, exhaling a smoke ring that faded into the windshield. “Plus my boss was robbed a couple years ago so we’re constantly checking the street, looking for anyone casing the shop. While you weren’t obvious, you stuck around a few seconds too long. My first thought was you were good-looking enough that I didn’t mind.”

  Feeling a rise in confidence, Marcek realized how subtly she was tugging his string. “And the second?”

  Angie pinched a shred of tobacco from her tongue. “You and my dad have the same look when you’re prepping.”

  Marcek cracked his window for some air. Everything Angie did was more than he expected. “So where do we go from here?”

  “Like I said, school’s my future. And like you said, it’s expensive. The only change now is we both know the other isn’t a lowbrow.”

  “So that’s our path,” said Marcek, feeling like the cheating husband whose wife has taken a lover.

  “Are you going for the store?”

  “I don’t do smash and grab. I like it coming in or going out.”

  “So what, then, the wholesaler? The buys from New York?”

  He shook off the suggestions. Product never held much appeal. If anyone in the chain got nicked, the whole operation was vulnerable. While diamonds were the best on a bad list, he still preferred cash, even if that meant smaller piles. “There’s probably a half-dozen ways to make money off your jewelry story, but it has to be worth the effort. And it can’t smell like an employee. Otherwise the cops will run names, find your old man’s sheet, and shine the light in your eyes.”

  Angie reminded herself to step easy. She was circling the guy who was circling her piece-o-shit boss. Every part of that equation was an ambition she didn’t want to jeopardize. “Let’s figure out a way to make this work.”

  Looking at her looking at him, Marcek was struck by the twist. Twenty-four hours earlier his mom had peppered him about finding a woman. Get a sweetie, she said, rubbing his cheek with a dishwater hand. His response was he didn’t frequent places populated by nice girls. She gave him a gentle slap and said it was okay to settle for pretty and smart.

  “Your boss take in a lot of cash?”

  Angie nodded. “His best clients are criminal defense attorneys that get paid with drug money. My boss skips the tax if they use it instead of a credit card. But I hope you’re smarter than jacking him on his way to the bank. First off, he packs a gun. Second, he deposits right across the street. You’d have no chance.”

  Drove Marcek crazy how easy she doled out the advice, telling him what he shouldn’t be doing. Her confidence was sexier than the panties he imagined her wearing. “I’m not robbing the jewelry store or stealing it straight from your boss. All too obvious.”

  “Well, how else are we going to make it happen?”

  “We?”

  “Isn’t that the point?”

  Marcek put a hand on her knee for no other reason than he wanted to touch her skin. “I’m getting the money. And you’ll get your share. But the easiest way is tagging a high roller before he makes his jewelry pickup. All I need to know is when one of these whales is coming in and from what direction.”

  “Oh, so that’s the big plan?”

  Having no answer, he leaned across the armrest and did what he’d been waiting to do all night. The kiss was how he imagined. Soft, slow, and a sweet treat.

  5.

  OUT THE SHOP’S FRONT DOOR, Anton Bielakowski turned east for the half-mile walk to the warehouse. His journey was backdropped by a repeating sequence of brick and stucco row homes decorated with faded awnings, American flags, and porches covered in green indoor/outdoor carpeting. Breaking the architectural monotony were intersections sprinkled with owner-operated convenience stores, hair salons, and old-man taverns sporting last year’s Christmas lights.

  Four miles northeast of Philly’s skyline, Port Richmond was a neighborhood no one had any compelling reason to visit or pass through. Most Philadelphians couldn’t give directions or find it on a map. The neighborhood’s eastern border was the Delaware River; the western was a debate involving Aramingo, Frankford, and Kensington Avenues. A majority of residents were second- and third-generation Poles employed by the nearby oil refining facilities along I-95. Of those born on the far side of the Atlantic, three dozen had participated in the Polish Resistance.

  Distracted by what waited for him at the warehouse, Bielakowski forgot his first delivery, backtracking a half block to Mrs. Kaminski’s home. Before dying, her husband had been Bielakowski’s enforcer for much of the seventies and eighties. The man said little, never traveled, and enjoyed his work—the perfect hammer.

  The sausage maker wasn’t surprised when the widow opened her front door before he knocked. With the passing of her husband and all seven children gone to the suburbs, nothing remained to entertain her eye.

  “Hello, Mr. Bielakowski,” she said, reaching out to confirm his presence. She wore a white sweatshirt decorated with dancing pumpkins and glossy black pants. A few more pounds on her midsection would have challenged the clothing’s coverage. “I saw you walk past and thought you’d forgotten. Now I can see a heavy burden on your face. Come in for a drink. Relax a moment while we tell stories about Jozef.”

  Bielakowski attributed the liquor he smelled to her loneliness. For the first part of Mrs. Kaminski’s life, men went mad for her curves, declaring love outside her bedroom window while she still lived with her parents. Before getting serious with Jozef, she could’ve had two dates every night, never with the same boy twice. During her middle years, the kids snuggled in tight, soaking up all the hugs and kisses she was willing to give. Only recently had Mrs. Kaminski discovered anonymity. Shopping for one, she was invisible except to other cart-pushing widows and the checkout girl.

  The sausage maker smiled as kindly as his temperament allowed and handed over a package. “Can’t stay today. I have a few more stops. And my wife is waiting.”

  The widow wasn’t offended. Bielakowski’s face had her recalling Jozef’s transformations. As he headed for the door after kissing his family good-bye, she saw something rise in him—a commitment to violence against men of no immediate threat. The same look was now on her doorstep. “Give me the other package,” she said, “the one for Mrs. Wisniewski. No sense fussing over weathered hens when you have business.”

  “I wish Jozef were here to walk with me. The older I get, the more I recall our times together. He was a good friend.”

  It wasn’t just Jozef Kaminski that Bielakowski missed. He’d outlasted his entire generation and was gaining ground on the next. His soldiers now included the grandsons and great-grandsons of his deceased partners. While they were competent, some couldn’t speak Polish, and a few had married women outside the neighborhood. He still had the resources to run his operations—loans and collections, the overage house, money laundering, and a numbers game that stretched to the Bahamas—but he sometimes wondered if Port Richmond had passed him by. Was he indulged because times were good? His relationship with the neighborhood had always been give-and-take—they succeeded together by each protecting the other. Did the newer generation still buy into this arrangement? Did they understand the commitment? And if not, were there enough old-timers to see him to the finish line? These questions, he knew, would be answered soon enough. “It’s divine grace to survive your foes,” he said. “And a hellish curse to outlive your friends.”

  The widow stepped onto the stoop, tugging the bottom edge of her sweatshirt. “We’ve heard the rumors,” she said, flicking her chin up and down the narrow street. “And seen your friend Bern making his deliveries. These people trust you, Anton, they always have. But at some point, the next generation must assume their roles. Either they’ll fight for Port Richmond or they won’t. The burden is not yours until you die.”

  Plucking each word like a loose bass string, he said, “No one comes into my neighborhood. Remember appeasing our German
friends? Give them a little and they’ll leave us alone. And we appeased our way right into the Bialowieza and the ghettos. Years of sleeping in the dirt, our people eating rats and rotten cabbage while they burned our farms. No, never again. I won’t step back. When I’m dead the next generation can let the Italians, Russians, and Armenians run wild. But while I’m alive, Port Richmond belongs to us. Our money isn’t paying anyone else’s bills.”

  She placed a dry kiss on his cheek and said good-bye, sure her husband was looking down, praying for not another word. Though never the brightest of the Port Richmond crew, Jozef understood the organic components of longevity. When others were quick to describe Bielakowski as a rock, Jozef shook his head, arguing his boss was water. Years pass, the sun rises and sets, water crashes against rock, and everyone cheers the rock. But be patient. Watch. Bit by bit, the rock is broken down and swept away. The water goes looking for another rock. No exceptions.

  Bielakowski stepped off the stoop and within fifteen minutes had passed the final home on Port Richmond’s last populated block. He crossed beneath the highway to a lot once used by Delaware River coal haulers for impromptu baseball games. After working a hot summer’s day, the men played six-inning games while drinking buckets of locally brewed pilsner. The field was now pockmarked with patches of blacktop, bottles, dead gulls, busted concrete block, and fast-food wrappers.

  Through the back of the lot and down a crumbling access road, Bielakowski arrived at an abandoned warehouse protected by chain-link and warning signs. Stepping through a gap in the security fence, he paid more attention to snagging his trousers than to the threats against unlawful trespass. Familiar with the warehouse’s structure, he opened an unlocked side door and started up the southeast stairwell. Each landing faced the Delaware River, so by the third switchback Bielakowski could see barges working their loads and fishermen motoring in either direction. At the sixth floor, he exited into an open layout with load-bearing pillars every forty feet. The warehouse’s outer walls were banked in broken panes, allowing sheets of natural light and a cooling cross-breeze. The concrete floor—clear of trash and debris—was speckled with pigeon droppings and paint.